The Art of the Possible
by johnsarmylady
Summary: Sherlock is determined to find out if there is any truth to John's protestations of being "not gay" - and typically, he uses unusual methods to achieve his ends...Rated T for the suggestions if nothing else...


**You are probably used to me saying I found inspiration in songs, or snatches of conversation with fellow writers, but this really must be a first - as the title is taken from a comment that my Director made during a meeting on Tuesday...weird or what?**

With a sense of satisfaction Sherlock noticed that, yet again, he was the object of furtive glances.

Now in the normal scheme of things, this was hardly anything new – ever since he had started working with the Yard he had been subject to varying degrees of attention, from the 'beneath my lashes I'm keeping an eye on you' look that Sally Donovan gave him, to the 'I wish looks could kill' glares from Phil Anderson, and even Greg Lestrade's 'get on with it and stop showing off' looks had not abated over the years.

But this look, this was different.

He had first noticed it during Lestrade's fake drugs raid, once the matter of recreational drug use had been cleared up and slung out of the conversation, John had spent the rest of the raid (and continued across the crime scene) sliding those furtive, appraising glances at him.

If he was totally honest with himself he almost ignored it, thinking that his new flatmate was just sizing up the situation, learning about the stranger he'd just agreed (albeit on recommendation from Mike Stamford) to share a flat with. However, he found that argument didn't really stand up when, six months and a significant number of cases later he was still doing it.

And so Sherlock decided that he would need to investigate further.

xXx

"Anyone would think it's warm." John muttered as Sherlock sashayed past him wearing nothing but a pair of low slung, soft cotton pyjama bottoms.

While his back was to John a smile twitched Sherlock's lips, but when he turned to his flatmate it was firmly in check, leaving a suspicious blankness in its place. His friend didn't notice; his eyes were busy scanning the newspaper headlines.

"Anything?" Sherlock asked.

"Hmm?" John glanced up, confusion writ large across his face.

"In the paper. Anything of note?"

"Oh. Er, no. Nothing much at all."

Not a muscle twitched on the young man's face as he saw that while John was discussing a slow news day, his eyes were saying something else entirely.

"Are you...um...are you planning on getting dressed anytime today?"

"I doubt it," Sherlock climbed onto his chair and sat on the back, his feet on the seat. "It's not like there's anything to get dressed for, is there?"

John gaped.

"You look like a goldfish."

"Thanks." The offhand comment snapped the doctor out of his fugue and he rose to his feet, shuffling a little uncertainly. "Right. I suppose then as you aren't planning on doing anything much it's down to me again to get the shopping, anything you want?"

Sherlock had to bite the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from voicing the thought that flashed into his mind, and unfortunately for him John chose that exact moment to become observant.

"What's the matter?" Blue eyes narrowed as they looked closer. "Something's wrong."

"No, not at all." Nothing if not quick thinking, Sherlock shrugged. "I almost asked you to procure me a murder, something juicy, serial killing or ripper style would be nice."

Both men stared at each other. A giggle escaped the younger man, and that was all it took. By the time the laughter had subsided John was holding his sides trying to contain the ache.

"Bloody git!" he said, eyes sparkling with mirth as he grabbed his wallet and jacket and headed out of the door.

Watching his friend's departing back Sherlock's expression turned thoughtful.

xXx

' _Lestrade has a case. Forget shopping and come back to Baker Street. SH'_

John didn't respond, after all, his hands were occupied trying to carry two bags of shopping and hold his mobile to read the text. How long did the lazy sod think it took to do the basic shopping they needed? He smirked as he answered his own question – how could he know, he never did shopping these days, not when he had John or Mrs Hudson to do it for him.

As he staggered the last hundred yards or so to the front door he saw his friend waiting impatiently on the doorstep.

"I said forget..."

"Yeah I know – I was already on my way home – wasn't about to ditch it all in the middle of the street and come running." John huffed, frowning at the other man. Was there something different about the way Sherlock's eyes were taking in everything about him? He couldn't quite make up his mind. "I'll just pop these upstairs and put the perishables away..."

He paused in the doorway and looked back.

"You haven't put anything dead in the fridge have you?"

"What, since you went out? Hardly." Sherlock smirked.

"Right. Back in a mo then."

The ride to the crime scene was spent in companionable silence, Sherlock not wishing to outline the case in front of the cab driver, and John making full use of his time watching his friend in the reflection of the window.

With his head bent over his phone Sherlock appeared to be the epitome of a consulting detective engrossed in his work, but looks were undoubtedly deceiving.

Where ninety nine percent of his brain was working with the information already forwarded to him by Lestrade, a lone one percent was sulking. It wanted to toy with John's reactions a bit more, to map within itself possibilities, to see if his flatmate was as 'not gay' as he always protested.

As the cab drew to a halt outside the police cordon he leapt out, quashing the sulking one percent and leaving his friend, as always, to pay the fare.

By the time John had caught up the consulting detective was already stalking around the body – or rather what was left of the body after predation and weather had taken its toll.

"What made you call me?" Sherlock asked, not even bothering to look up at the Detective Inspector as his eyes flickered around the area.

"Who knows?" Anderson answered. "It's a vagrant, died of natural causes."

"Oi!" Lestrade glared at him. "Wind your neck in Anderson, this isn't a regular spot for homeless people."

"Not enough shelter." John muttered.

"Exactly." Sherlock agreed, a small smile of approval flashed in John's direction. "And when you add to that the fact that if you'd been bothered enough to look Anderson, you'd have seen the garrotte around his neck where the perpetrator obviously pulled it so tight that it cut in, in fact it cut so far that it wasn't thoughtlessness that made her leave it behind, but inability to remove it."

"Her?" Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "How so?"

"Angle of the cut, lack of strength to remove it, panic..." he paused. "And a very telling footprint in the dried blood here." Pointing at a brownish stain on the floor he turned his head, eyes challenging Anderson to contradict him.

The Forensic lead wisely said nothing.

John walked across and stared down, first at the corpse, then at the bloodstain.

"That amount of blood would have drawn every dog, cat and urban fox out to supper." He noted mildly, lifting his eyes to look around. "I'd say, given the recent temperatures and the state of the body, that he's probably been here for less than a week, but at least..." he paused, and looked back down at the body. "...yeah, at least three or four days."

Sherlock nodded, and moved away, carefully pacing the perimeter of the crime scene, and it was while he was here that he looked back to see that John had stepped back across to stand beside the Inspector and was taking advantage of the fact that Sherlock was no longer standing over a dead body to slide furtive glances in his direction. He was careful not to let his satisfaction show.

It took less than ten minutes for him to deduce that the killer run away from the scene, towards Swiss Cottage underground station, and with the amount of blood that must have been on her clothing there was little chance that she managed to get onto a tube train unseen.

"I would start making enquiries locally, the victim is relatively well off..."

"How...?"

"The clothes, John. High end London fashion yet not quite 'designer' standard." Sherlock turned his attention back to Lestrade and Sally Donovan. "I'd say it's likely that trouble has been brewing for the couple for a while – a garrotte is not a spur of the moment weapon – so there may be neighbours who heard arguments..."

"Yes, yes." Donovan said testily. "We _do_ know how to do our jobs."

"...and so I'd say it's an open and shut domestic." Sherlock continued as if Sally hadn't spoken. "Hardly worth my time. Come on John."

Offering Lestrade a sympathetic shrug John trailed off in his flatmate's wake, hurrying as the other man leapt into a cab and looking for all the world as if he was going to leave his friend behind; he was not to know that Sherlock was, in fact, planning his next move.

For the duration of the journey back to Baker Street he mapped out the next few hours in his head. Tonight was going to be the night that would bring about the defining moment of his and John's partnership – or end it forever.

xXx

If John had thought the atmosphere in the cab a little strange, it was nothing to what happened next. As he followed Sherlock into the flat he realised that with every step the other man took he was undoing or peeling off an item of clothing, and it was with more than a little relief he realised that he at least had the decency to head straight to his bedroom.

The problem was, he didn't come out again.

John was unsure what to do. He had, as he always did when they returned home after a case, made tea for them both and grabbed the take-away menus from a draw in the kitchen, but when he brought them through to the living room his flatmate was nowhere to be seen, and now John was shuffling from foot to foot outside the still closed bedroom door.

"Um...Sherlock? Are you okay?"

"Mmm"

A frown creased the older man's forehead. That could have meant yes – on the other hand, it might have meant no, it was such an ambiguous noise.

"Can I...I mean, I have ..."

The door opened suddenly.

"Something wrong John?"

John stood with his mouth hanging open.

Sherlock was naked as the day he was born, long slender limbs glowing in the dim early evening light as he moved to stand in the doorway. To John's eyes he looked like a piece of exquisite art, framed as he was by the dark wood surround.

Heat suffused John's cheeks, and he closed his suddenly dry mouth with a snap.

"I..."

"Yes?"

"You..."

Sherlock's eyebrows slowly rose, and a small smile twitched at the corners of his lips.

"Oh God." The groan forced itself from John's lips as he stared with helpless longing at his flatmate. "Please..."

Stepping forward, Sherlock gently removed the mug of tea from the death-grip of John's fingers, and turned towards the kitchen, placing it safely on the table before returning to stand in front of the other man.

"What is it you want?" he asked softly.

John swallowed, his now free hand waving vaguely at the form in front of him.

"This." His voice was barely a whisper. "Oh God I want this!"

Sherlock needed no more encouragement than that. He reached out, tangling slender fingers in the weave of the doctor's jumper, and taking a step back slowly pulled him into the bedroom.

xXx

"Not gay then?" There was a definite grin in Sherlock's voice, that John couldn't be arsed to respond to. Instead he just tightened his grip on the warm body resting within the circle of his arms.

"He's not my boyfriend?" Repeating another of his now lover's oft used phrases, the grin persisted as Sherlock pressed closer still.

"Shut up, git."

A warm chuckle escaped the kiss-ravaged full lips that were currently nibbling their way across smaller man's shoulder, making him tremble gently at the sensory overload.

Unbidden, a thought crossed John's mind, and he pulled away slightly, raising himself up on one elbow and staring down into Sherlock's lust-hazy eyes.

"Was that..." with a dip of his head he indicated the other's body. "All that walking around half dressed, and all the looks across crime scenes... Was that some kind of experiment?"

"It was a study." Came the smiling reply as Sherlock slid his hand along John's arm, sweeping across his shoulder and gently cupping his neck.

"A study?" John felt himself being pulled closer until their noses touched, and all he could see was inky black pupils with a thin ring of grey/blue/green iris staring deeply into his eyes.

"A study." Sherlock repeated softly. "In the art of the possible."


End file.
